Keating

So I walked into the kitchen and discovered, to my dismay, an entire island in the middle of the kitchen with a neat tray of muffins on top. I was astonished I hadn’t noticed it when I walked in, I would have brushed up against it when Ghost was getting my drink. It was made of red granite with smooth whitewashed sides. The island also had drawers in it, and as I ate my muffin of choice, (blueberry, for those who are curious, although chocolate-chip was a close contender) I circled the island and opened all the drawers: steak knives, fancy cloth napkins (these with a post-it in what I suspected was Clutch’s cramped, scrawled handwriting stating “I hate these things,”) take-out and delivery menus. A Chinese place up in San Mateo had little hearts on it, probably a favorite.

A list of restaurants was also included, presumably places they frequented. Of these, there were two piles, although I couldn’t tell what divided them. Lunch and dinner, probably. French seemed to be a favorite for both meals. So I picked the menus up and spread them across the island, reading them. There were two sets of handwriting I did not know, presumably that of the parents, but there was also Ghost’s tall, spidery script running lightly over the menus, mentioning various dishes of interest. Meat. They both loved meat. Steak sandwiches, hamburgers, pork with green beans. Ghost in particular liked poultry, listing chicken stew, chicken biryani, roast chicken, smoked tea duck, cashew chicken, and chicken saag. Clutch, on the other hand, preferred anything that wasn’t chicken (pork fried rice, egg rolls, lamb samosas, spaghetti Bolognese, filet mignon, wonton soup, pork chops, pastrami) with the exceptions of chicken biryani and fried chicken.

There was another menu for a pizza delivery place in Menlo Park that Clutch has marked, a scrawled “I do not like pizza” across the top. Inside was a post-it note addressed directly to me. It read:

Hadyn- I know you’re curious, so if you’re reading this it means something went wrong and we had to stop being our equivalent of gracious. In the family room (that’s the room with the stairs) is a wet bar. Walk past the stairs, it’ll be straight back on your right. Feel free to help yourself. One of us will try to explain once we’ve remedied whatever’s troubling us.

I was saved from having to think anything of this note when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and heard Clutch’s voice addressing Ghost and leading him down the hall. I heard a door shut (the door to their bedroom, perhaps?) at the end of the hall. I got up very, very quietly and walked out the door on my left, into the family room. I crossed the room and stood in front of two mahogany slat doors. I pulled them open and saw a sink, several bottles of alcohol, and an array of glasses. I took a martini glass from the shelf and poured a hefty measure of some kind of cognac I’d never heard of, walked back to the island in t he kitchen, and looked around. Behind me, on the other side of the kitchen, was a tiny dining room with just a table and half a dozen chairs. One wall was a sliding glass door overlooking the deck. It was more of a dining hall, really, in that it only had the two walls, and two open entries. Beyond it was a huge room, empty of everything except a large desk haphazardly stuffed with frantic papers in one corner of the room, and a gas fireplace. It was not their desk. That bothered me. Whose desk was it, why was it all alone in the corner of a large, empty room? I turned quickly and walked back to the kitchen, leaning my elbows on the island. I didn’t want to stare at that desk any more, with its frantic tension and unknown owner. I set the glass of cognac down, but picked up again after a moment, raising it to my lips and holding it, but not drinking.
I heard the sharp tap-tap-tap of feet running up stairs and Clutch careened into the room.

“Hi Hadyn, y- oh.” She looked between the glass in my hand and the note resting to my left on the island, on top of the menus. “Hang on a sec.” She padded softly into the other room and I heard the clink of glass. She returned with a highball glass half-full of sparkling red-pink liquid.
“What is that?”
“Vodka, cherry syrup, and soda water.” Clutch sipped and made a face before reaching behind and taking a bottle of grape soda from the refrigerator. She filled the glass and took another sip. This time, she spat it into the sink to the right of the refrigerator before emptying the highball glass into the sink. “Eugh, too sweet,” she muttered, pulling a bottle of wine from the cupboard above the stove and taking a rather unceremonious swig, swishing it between her teeth before she swallowed. “So. You want an explanation, right?”

I felt cold run through my veins. I was terrified, but I didn’t know why. I nodded anyway. She scowled critically at the bottle before glancing at me, “ask away. We don’t really give away more than the bare minimum, so you really have to prompt us. Or me, I guess, since Ghost isn’t here.”
I swallowed, tongue like sandpaper scraping my mouth. “W-, uh, where’s Ghost?”
“Taking a nap. Being distressed exhausts him, the poor thing.”
“What’s…wrong with him?” Even as I asked I cringed and prayed she wouldn't kick me out, but Clutch merely shrugged.

“Him? Nothing. He just hates seeing me this way.” She straightened up and put the bottle of wine back in the cupboard before walking away, back into the family room. I was just wondering whether I should follow when she returned, carrying a bottle of white wine. The only word I could read on the label was “cupcake.”
Clutch must have felt me looking, because she glanced up from pouring it into an espresso cup and explained, “dessert wine. A happy medium.” Something must have struck her as funny, because she broke into wild, chilling laughter. Howling, jeering, cackling, psychotic laughter. She broke off just as suddenly and coughed once into her fist. “Sorry. I was just thinking of the Happy Medium in A Wrinkle in Time. She’s a kick.”

“Why do you laugh like that?” My voice was barely more than a whisper.
She chuckled, naturally this time. “Sorry. Force of habit, I guess. Seen ‘The Dark Knight’ too many times. You can train yourself in and out of it.” She shivered convulsively, grabbing the hem of her t-shirt with one hand and clutching the sleeve of her jacket with the other. “Okay, we’re going out! I’ll even explain things to you.” She pulled a small pink notepad and a pen out of a drawer in the island and scribbled something before slapping them down. She was right-handed.
“Are you sober?”

“Yeah, it was mostly cherry syrup.” She glanced at the espresso cup, still full, then reached over and drained it. “Still yes. Come on, let’s get in the car.”
“What about Ghost?”

She looked at me like I was brain damaged. “I left a note. We’re not dressed for this weather, come on.” Clutch grabbed my wrist. Her hands were small, cool, and dry. Both her nails and her cuticles were chewed and ragged. She tugged me out of the kitchen and down the hall, where she opened a closet. “Jackets. Boys’ jackets.” She dropper her pleather jacket to the floor and kicked it away, grabbing a black wool coat with a grey fur trimmed hood. “Not this one, it’s mine.” It had deep pockets and empty belt loops around the waist. My hands felt very cold, but my wrist was tingling where she’d touched me. She looked at the coat in her hand and her brow furrowed. “Not yet.” Clutch padded off down the hall towards her bedroom, leaving me with her coat.

She returned no more than three minutes later wearing a black and grey striped long-sleeved t-shirt. In her arms she clutched a purple cardigan and two scarves- one red and one grey. She tossed the cardigan and the red scarf to me, causing me to drop her coat. I think I must have murmured some apology, but she just shook her head, wrapping the scarf once around her throat with her coat clutched between her knees.
She pondered me. “I know it’s not real winter, but do you think we should get boots and gloves?” She looked dubiously out of the bay window by the front door, leaning across me. She smelled like wood and burning leaves. Then she shook her head. “Nah, I want to get there before the fair closes.”

“Fair?” I hastily pulled the scarf and cardigan around myself. She shrugged. “Some street thing. Tourists, art, you know.” She leaned back again and rummaged through the closet before selecting a coat of wool in the most beautiful charcoal grey I had ever seen. The lining was violet silk. “This one for Hadyn, I think.”
“Th-thank you. This is really nice.”

She glanced at me sideways, unsmiling. “The coat or my behavior?”
I shrugged. “Both, I guess. I’m not really sure which one I meant.”
She smiled at that, a child’s open smile. “Very good, I’m glad. Now we really have to go, it’s almost 5:30.” She practically skipped down the hall to the absolute last door, the door to the garage. “Should we take the car or the van?”
Hell if I knew. “What’s the difference?”

“One’s a darling little crimson two-door coupe- is that redundant, saying a two-door coupe- and the other is a dusty, beat-up black van with writing all over it. I think all of the good tapes are in that one, though. And by tapes I of course mean CDs and my iPod. The sheets on the mattress in the back just got changed, though.”
Mattress?
“That one. The van.”

Clutch nodded and pushed a button on the wall, opening the garage door. “Might as well.” She flicked on the light and I saw both cars. Gorgeous and streamlined though the coupe undoubtedly was, it was nowhere near as fascinating as the van. As she opened the door, I read the legend “I want to rock and roll all night, and eat breakfast every day” emblazoned below the handle in red paint. I followed, after she beckoned, to the car, and stood behind her as she slid open a side door and gazed at the mattress inside, moaning “Oh no, oh no, oh no no no!”
“What’s wrong?” It had zebra-striped sheets, black pillowcases and a pastel quilt, all tucked in and neatly arranged.

“The sheets don’t match the pillowcases! That means our bed is also mismatched! This! Ruins! My life!” Clutch wordlessly whimpered quietly to herself. Her voice had gotten higher again, childish. She gestured for me to get in, and hopped into the drivers’ seat. I scrambled around to the passenger side and clambered into the seat, buckling myself immediately. She started the car, still glowering.

“My absolute least favorite thing is when someone tries to do something nice for you, but in such a way that you can’t appreciate it. You’re annoyed and guilty, but also appreciative and it’s utter shit.” Clutch drove us to the top of the hill that was the driveway, and began navigating the winding road back down. “Faster, faster!!” She giggled, glancing over at me. “I’m just kidding, Hadyn, we won’t go any faster than this, it’s not safe. Here,” she tossed an iPod touch into my lap. It was connected by a wire to the cassette in the tape deck, and I hadn’t seen her grab it. “Find something you like.” I put on Elton John’s Tiny Dancer, and she nodded serenely. “I love this one.” She drove, and I watched her. She was very pale, with a straight nose and cheekbones you could slit your wrists on. Her lips were a pale rose, and I noticed she was wearing chap stick. I asked why. “In case I want to kiss you. Also because I’m an addict and I keep frantically reapplying when you’re not looking.” Her pale fingers tapped the steering wheel as she waited for the light to change. I could not speak, mostly because she had to be fucking with me. There was no way in hell she could want to kiss me.
The song changed to something dark, with a quick tempo. Dark rock, but no screaming. “What- who is this?”
“Tiger Army. His voice is so pretty, I don’t care that his lyrics are trite whiny crap.” His voice was very pretty, like golden gravel. “What kind of music do you even like, Hadyn?”

I floundered. “I’ll listen to anything really, except rap.” I prayed inwardly that Clutch and her brother were not secretly enamored with the genre.
She smiled crookedly, and without humor. “I’d imagine you do, but that is not what I asked.” She parked smoothly behind the bank and turned off the lights, leaving us in the dark. “I asked what you like.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned towards me. “Besides my face, I mean. Didn’t think I saw you blush, did you? Oh, but I did. Not that I really care one way or th’other. Now what kinda goddamn music do you like, Hadyn Connelly?”

“Rock and techno.” I couldn’t see much in the dark, but I could see her. Her pale features nearly glowed in the dark, her eyes bright and angry.
“That was all I needed, that’s all you had to tell me. You don’t have to pussyfoot around us, Hadyn. We like you. Not that Ghost is here, but I’m sure he would agree.” Again, I could not speak. My feet were numb, and I could feel cold creeping up my legs. “What are you feeling?”
“Fear.” And again I could not hesitate.

“Why?” She sounded angry, not curious. She knew why.
“Because for all I know you could be crazy. It’s not like you act normally.”
“And you’re normal? Please. You’re a boy with a vagina, how the fuck normal do you think you can be? No. No. Don’t come to me whining about how ‘abnormal’ I am with a face like yours. Now I want you to get the fuck out of my van. You will not walk away, and you will not make a sound. We will walk together to a diner, and there I will order something nice to drink. You are only allowed to talk after it arrives, and when you do we are going to pretend that neither of us wants to hit the other. If you don’t do as I say, I may very well brain you with,” she reached under the seat and pulled out “a hammer. Got it?” She waved it in my face, smiling without meaning it. A rictus grin. A nervous grin. I nodded and got out of the car. Clutch walked behind me down the street, poking me and pointing occasionally to tell me where to turn. We passed stalls full of clothes, wares, fudge (she hesitated there) and sizzling sounds. Food stalls, but we kept walking. Finally she tugged on my coat slightly, bringing me to a stop. We were standing outside Eddie’s 24-hour Eatery, and the neon sign was failing. Clutch pushed me through the door and checked her watch. She looked tired and drawn, older and unhappy.

“Tony? Edna!” She bounded towards the woman on the other side of the glass counter to my right, a woman in her late forties, with her hair pulled up in a bun. She was arranging Danishes in a display. At least, I thought they were Danishes, but our waiter later told us they were “actually ‘super delectable raspberry jam fizzle tarts!!’ Ghost named them, and he still won’t tell us how a fizzle tart is different from a Danish.”

“Edna, this my friend Hadyn. He came over to visit for the first-ever time today, so I came here to Explain things to him. So while it’s cool to see you an’ all, I kinda need to find Tony- or Matt, since they’re basically the same person anyway- and acquire drinks and shit. Oh Hadyn, you can talk now. I was mad at him for being a pussy, but now I changed my mind.” Without even letting Edna get a word beyond “Hello” in edgewise, Clutch grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward a booth in the back, where the vinyl was ruby and sparkled, instead of plain crimson. She slid in first. “I got a car the same color as the seats here on purpose, isn’t that lame? I like to think it shows my loyalty.” I couldn’t think of anything to say, but I was saved because a young man approached us. His nametag informed me that his name was Tony.

“Hello, how can I- oh, hey Clutch. Where’s Ghost?”
“At home. Sleeping. Maybe Mordecai will bring him, but I haven’t even texted him yet so probs not. Haydeeeennn!! This my friend Tony. He’s a waiter obvs, ‘cause he works here. Toooooonyyyyy, this my friend Hadyn, he’s new but not at school. I came here to ‘splain things. Can I have a pastrami sandwich on rye and a cherry soda? With sweet potato fries, not the regular kind.”
“Yes, now shut up and let Hadyn talk.”

I blushed and glanced at the floor. This Tony, whoever he was, was very attractive, even if he didn’t swing that way. It always alarms me to have a well-dressed individual address me, even if it’s a uniform. (He was wearing a wine-colored vest, a white shirt, and black slacks with unornamented black leather oxfords, for the record.) He also looked like some sort of Greek God, with perfect olive skin and dark hair falling just barely into his hazel eyes. “Hello Tony.” Oh, and that was witty, but he just laughed.
“Can I take your order?”
“I’ll have what she’s having.”

“Oh, do you also like soda that tastes like cough syrup? I can see why you’re friends.”
“Um, with orange soda, please.” He was looking at me so intently and I was burning, burning under his gaze. Across the table Clutch was grinning like a Cheshire cat. She reached over and played with Tony’s hair, waiting.

After Tony wrote down my order and left, Clutch scowled at the formica table, and scratched it with her thumb nail. “What a jerk, it doesn’t even taste that much like cough syrup. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, by the way, with depersonalization and derealization, which means that sometimes I feel like I’m not real or the world isn’t real. I sometimes do stupid things, but I mostly just panic and feel sorry for myself. I’m sorry I got mad at you. I wasn’t even gonna hit you, but you didn’t feel real when you lied and I want you to be real very much.” So that was it. She wanted me around so she threatened me, made me behave in a way she perceived as real. Interesting.